


Saudade

by septicwheelbarrow



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, not quite a fix-it yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septicwheelbarrow/pseuds/septicwheelbarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In D.C., Erik says goodbye and expects Charles to welcome him with open arms. Charles says goodbye and right there, meant every syllable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> My response to DOFP, somewhat of a work-in-progress, but works as a standalone.

_"You weren't the first page of my book, but since coming into it I'd be damned if you weren't in every page, in every sentence, until the very last word."_  
\- Gabriel Kawczynski

 

Erik brings himself to the mansion near the summer of 1974. Inside, Charles freezes, his tongue stumbling over words in front of a dozen teenagers, and dismisses biology class. With a tangle of bitterness coiling in his heart he turns to face the window, and sees Erik standing stiff on the front steps, hands balled into fists and teeth gritted. Blood is dripping from his temple, his calves, his back, and the red of his blood is stark against the green of blades of grass. The cheerful excitement of students being let out early pales in comparison to the hurricane of Erik's thoughts, a maelstorm Charles would not decipher.

Charles searches for Hank and Alex within the mansion's cauldron of minds. Hank is in the laboratory, working on something Charles promises not to spy on. Alex is returning a glass of milk to the fridge. _Stand by_ , he commands, and they both snap to attention. _Magneto is here_.

He spends moments gathering his own chaotic thoughts, clutching fury in hand, weaving courage around himself like a cocoon. With no small amount of trepidation, Charles eventually wheels out of the mansion to greet their trespasser.

"Erik," he says, when the mansion's front door opens. He stops behind the threshold. Let Erik approach if he's so inclined, but Charles is coming no closer.

"Charles," Erik rasps. He catches himself before he staggers forward, arm twitching at his side as if intent to reach out. Charles can see the way Erik fits badly into his clothes, cheeks gaunt and body skeletal. Dark circles underline his eyes, and there are more wrinkles on his face than Charles remembers. His skin looks ashen, lips flat and brows furrowed in pain, and his eyes --

"What do you want?" Charles says, tearing his eyes away.

"Is that how you greet an old friend?" Erik's lips quirk in a piteous pantomime of the man he was twelve years ago. He pins Charles with his gaze, eyes pursuing his with near-desperation.

Charles begs himself to stay unmoved. He reminds his treacherous heart of abandonment, of blood dripping from his sister's leg. Straightening in his chair, Charles says, "Say what you want. Otherwise, leave and stop wasting my time." Erik flinches, visible even as he tries to hide it, but Charles feels no satisfaction.

There is a moment in which Erik braces himself. When he speaks, his voice drags itself upon a thousand knives. "I want to stay."

 _"If you think you can simply walk in here-"_ Charles begins in a half-shout, but he bites his tongue. He slams his eyes shut and presses fingers against the bridge of his nose, brows tight. Anger flashes and roars, clinging to his person like burrs.

A few seconds later, Charles opens his eyes. He (and Alex and Hank and everybody else) has rebuilt a life in this house, full of children's laughter and books and the pastries Alex bakes. He has young mutants, happy and accepted, loved and loving, running in and out of the classrooms, denting tables and smearing paintings with jam. He has older mutants, strong and soft and healing, reading out passages from history books and teaching physics to eager children.

Sometimes when Charles uses Cerebro he hears Raven. They speak to each other, words and emotions awkward with years of mistakes, but the love between them is a thread neither of them will break. Raven's visits are almost always perfunctory, sometimes once or twice a season, and she brings with her young frightened mutants with torn wings or bleeding eyes. They cling to her legs with tears in their eyes, begging her not to leave, but she always shakes her head and kneels and declares, trust and conviction in her voice, _you will be happy here_. And here they stay, watching as she leaves with fast-drying eyes, standing their ground though their lips tremble. Charles overflows with pride for Raven and the children both.

The mansion glows, especially in the cusp of summer, the sweet smell of flowers wafting throughout the air. The sign on the open gates - _Xavier's School for Gifted Children_ \- sways softly in the wind. This place is a sanctuary of peace, and Charles is the gatekeeper.

There is no place for Erik here.

But here behind the mansion's open doors Charles is just one person, one foolish person whose memories of Erik shine too bright. He dreams about nights with chess and scotch and soft kisses along his thighs, and even if they all end (on a beach with half his body empty of feeling, amidst piles of rubble with red, white and blue on the ground), Charles still remembers too keenly the man who shed tears before moving a satellite. He remembers - though sometimes unwillingly - _love_.

Charles draws a tight breath, and makes a decision. "The mansion is open to all who needs it."

Erik's eyes widen in wretched hope. "You were always the better man, old friend," he murmurs, and there is a semblance of sincerity behind his false-jovial tone.

"Something you always manage to work to your advantage," Charles says, toneless, and the hope in Erik dims. As Charles turns back and wheels himself away, Erik trails beside him like a ghost. Neither of them makes a sound. Charles feels, too keenly, the weight of all the words they don't say.

They arrive in his office, which is almost always in a mess. Papers are strewn over every available flat surface, stationery littering each every corner of the desk. Empty cups of tea leave watermarks on the varnish, cold and forgotten in their spot. Charles cleans the room only when he needs to maintain an air of respectability; this way the mess feels like a concession, a mark of identity other that the Professor. It is something he feels he needs, especially when his hair and his face and his clothes are now so polished. Some students raise eyebrows at the clutter, but Hank, dear kind Hank, understands this most of all and informs him no less than three days in advance when someone will visit. _So you have time to clean up_ , he says. And Charles smiles and thanks him for everything he has done.

The layout of the office has changed numerous times since twelve years ago, furniture shifted and walls repainted. Alex has attached fixtures and lowered the desks, clearing out shelves that make it hard to navigate, doing it all by himself without Charles even raising a hand. _Perks of being in a wheelchair_ , Charles had said, winking, _getting other people to do hard labor_ , and from then their awkward laughter grew true.

Even then, throughout the years, the (their) chessboard remains a permanent fixture, waiting on one side of the room like a polar axis. When they enter the room, that is the first thing Erik notices. His eyes soften, spine relaxing minutely. And Charles, the sentimental fool he is, feels his skin flayed open and his flesh on display.

He clears his throat and moves to inhabit the space behind the desk. Erik faces him, but does not sit, and Charles makes no offer. First things first. "Do you need medical attention?"

"No."

"Then what brings you here so suddenly?"

Erik opens his mouth, then closes it again. Indecision flashes across his face and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "I..." he begins, "It would be easier if you just..." He gestures absently to his head.

"No," Charles says, sharply. "You can tell me in words or not at all."

Erik's eyes narrow at the reprimand, but he does not comment. "Fine. You went public last August."

This is true. Fueled by the public's admiration of Mystique and facilitated by money in the right hands, Charles had revealed the nature of his school to the world. And now people come, mutants and abandoned humans alike, from the far-reaching corners of the globe, seeking solace and safety and a home. People flock to this school and not one of them harbors malice. "Yes, and?"

"Is that wise?"

A prickle of annoyance tugs the words out of his throat. "If you're here to criticize, Erik, I'm sure we both have better things to do."

Erik, damn him, stares into Charles' eyes and says, voice level, "The humans will come eventually."

"They have," Charles spits. "They come with their mutant children, their aging mutant parents, siblings and spouses, and they seek peace and acceptance like the majority of us. No one comes here with the intent to war, Erik."

"Not _yet_."

"Not everyone is as bellicose as you." Charles exhales sharply, hands swiping across the desk in an impatient motion. "First you criticize me for hiding, then you do the same when I stop. What do you want, Erik? By now you must realize - I don't know why you never seem to understand - that my actions are certainly _not_ designed with your satisfaction in mind. Oftentimes quite the opposite, even."

Somewhere during Charles' short speech, Erik's hands have balled up into fists, clenched tight and pale. His teeth are gritted. "I know that," he says, eventually, anger boiling behind his words. "I also know that there are men like Trask who have power. I know that the public is gullible and prone to fear. And when they fear they tend to react with guns."

"Do you know how Sean died?" Charles counters, mouth running to fast for his better senses to catch. "Your telepath," he spits, the leash of his hurt let loose, "burst his vessels without even cutting off his nerves. He died writhing in pain, drowning in his own blood." The force of his telepathy rages outwards like an abominable beast. "It's you, Erik!" Charles yells. "You and your people did more damage to us than the humans have ever managed."

Erik's face is ashen. "I, I never knew..."

 _Of course you don't_ , Charles thinks to himself, vindictively. _Why show our enemies the cracks they've made?_

But Charles closes his eyes and makes a show of calming himself. The sound of his breath is the only thing he hears for a long while, but soon his ears and mind catch strains of joy, students fussing over homework and playing in the lawn. He uses their calm to reinforce his own. _Take your own advice, Charles Xavier. Be the better man._

The thing is, Charles understands. This is what he has agonized about, the months preceding the school's revelation, turning the decision over and over in his mind until exhaustion infuses its very veins. He has consulted Hank, Alex, talked to the adult mutants whose efforts contributed to the school's running.

He had talked to Raven. _You want to be a part of the world,_ Raven said, an echo of twelve years past. But what was resentment is now support, because many things Raven understood so much more than he. And Raven, for all her claims of superiority and difference, still wants to be loved. _Yes,_ Charles answered. _It's the only way we can live._ Raven grinned and bade him good luck before she left again; she needs no sanctuary, because she is now hailed as a hero even though the world does not know her name. _I'm beautiful and mysterious,_ Raven winked, and all of them had laughed.

Erik, on the other hand, never did outgrow the camps. Never left Shaw. He is a little frightened boy trapped in power and a grown man's body, and his nightmares are those that may become true. Charles wonders about the years Erik spent in solitude, Erik, who found friends only to rip himself away. Erik who when faced with the slightest threat will swing a thousand swords to protect the ones he hold most dear. Charles breathes, and then speaks, his voice soft and his gaze clear. "You fear more than most, my friend."

And Erik, proud, beautiful Erik, crumples and folds into the chair, the combined force of grief and anger and regret weighing down his limbs. "I have reason to fear," he says, and he sounds so terribly small.

"I know you do," Charles begins, choosing his words as if crawling atop broken glass. Vocabulary leaves him at the most inopportune of moments, fizzling away like doused flames, and his tongue is left stiff and clumsy. "And I am sorry that you spent a decade in prison for a crime you did not commit. I am sorry that you were alone all these years. I am sorry that so many mutant lives ended for our peace. I am sorry for many things, but that does not mean I will apologize for them. Do you understand?"

"I do," Erik says. Tension leaves him in slow degrees, his spine curving and eyes no longer so tight.

"And you must see," Charles continues, "You must also understand that the world learns, whether you want it or not. And you must learn to change with it." When Erik bids no protest, Charles offers him a smile, tentative but true, the first step of a long armistice. "Welcome back, Erik."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Not sure if I will continue this, so for now it remains labeled as 'Complete', but I do have some of the rest written up that makes the story more relevant to the quote I used at the start, so when I'm not so busy I guess I will :p


End file.
